I’ve been shopping for a dress to wear to a wedding for three weeks now. I have purchased five (5) dresses and somehow still don’t have anything to wear. (In the interest of full disclosure, I should admit that I have a perfectly appropriate dress in my closet, but I’ve worn it to three of the past four weddings I’ve been to and was all over the excuse to buy a new dress.)

It seems like it should be an easy thing, buying a dress. My criteria were simple: I needed a dress that was appropriate for an afternoon-into-evening wedding, that was formal enough to go with a date in a tux but is still less formal than the bridesmaids dresses, and that was preferably not black. First, I ordered this dress:

It fit and is adorable, but in person, its totally not formal enough to wear to a wedding when your date has on a tux. Then, I ordered this dress:

Also beautiful, and formal enough, but it didn’t fit. And that became the story of dress shopping. Apparently there is not a single dress on the planet that fits me. I’m short, so anything that isn’t just the right length hits at a strange place. I’m pear shaped, which means that the sheath dresses like this–the third dress I bought–also won’t work.

(Side note: Why–WHY–can’t dress models just stand up straight? There is no possible way to understand how a dress will look in any reasonable situation when the models are standing like that!)

I always thought that empire waist dresses were a safe bet, but it turns out those are dodgy as well. On top of everything else, I’m short waisted. That, as I have learned, means that the top of the dress hits at an odd and unflattering place, which is a shame because I really, really loved this dress:

I have one last dress on order, and if it doesn’t work, I quit. I don’t care anymore about having a new dress, and have become way too aware of everything I don’t like about my figure. Its entirely possible that the reason I took up knitting is because its the only way I can have clothes that actually fit.

The store itself was wonderful–just big enough without being overwhelming, good variety of old standbys and local stuff, warm and friendly staff, and I’ll definitely go back. I got to fondle lots of sock yarn, look closely at a pair of Darn Pretty Needles, (I’m not cultured enough to see where they’re so different from Knit Picks Harmony wood) and check out Flat Feet (love the idea, not smitten with the colors).

The fluffiness above came home with me and is destined to become Branching Out. I also picked up a set of Lantern Moon Sock Sticks in ebony. More on those once I’ve used them enough to form an opinion.

As is nearly always the case when Christine and I go somewhere, the trip was an adventure. We were driving home, following the directions supplied by my navigation doohickey, and I am quite sure they weren’t the best possible route.

We stop at a redlight, and watch a weed whacker bounce out of the back of a big old pickup. Three things happened simultaneously , and in the span on one redlight.

One: The car who was directly behind the truck stopped dead in the face of the weedwhacker. The traffic was too heavy to swerve around it, and the car was too small to risk driving over it, even if the driver had been enough of a jerk to do such a thing. The driver–a slight Asian boy–gets out, delicately picks up the roadblock, and carries it over to the side of the road, setting it gently on the grass next to the sidewalk.

Two: The truck, suddenly aware that it is one weedwhacker short of a load, jumps a curb to park on a little grassy area and the passenger–a large redneck looking man with an ugly mustache–starts hauling ass across the road to get his missing equipment.

Three: A big, white pickup with a cap over to bed turns the corner, slows down, and steals the weedwacker! Except that somehow, we don’t see this happen. All we see is that suddenly, the weedwacker is no longer there.

By the time Mustache Man made it to the corner, there was nothing there, though clearly, it had been mere seconds before. I guess the guy who had taken it realized he was in danger of being busted, or maybe just felt guilty, because the next think we knew the truck was slowing down just enough to open the door and hand the weedwhacker out to Mustache Man.

Seriously? Who steals a weed whacker? And what kind of neighborhood were we in that lawn equipment couldn’t last three seconds on the side of the road? All Christine could say was, “Don’t drop your yarn!” No kidding.